


The Last Sled

by lunar_system



Series: Fortuna [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blowjobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Happy Ending, I make the rules, M/M, Other, Praise kink I guess, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Top Aziraphale, and blessings that burn in a sexy way, both explicitly have cocks this time around, crowley switches pronouns every now and then, gratuitous fix-it for my own mess, mostly canon-compliant but in a malleable way, rainbow’s end with golden dreams, she/he/they crowley, the anxious factor is transferred to crowley, they are both crybabies in this one, this is inspired by a scrooge mcduck comic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29398296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunar_system/pseuds/lunar_system
Summary: The last great gold rush has turned into a myth for all except for those who experienced it firsthand. After the Armageddon that wasn’t, Crowley and Aziraphale attempt to reconcile with their past.One last trip to Klondike. One last sled to Dawson.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Fortuna [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041094
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The final part of my Fortuna series!
> 
> This fic is inspired by the comic The Last Sled to Dawson by Don Rosa, but mostly wanders off on its own. Like, I go full fanfic emotional in this one. Any resemblance to a plot is replaced by Yearning.
> 
> Also, take my depiction of modern day Yukon with a grain of salt! Never been there, and my research for the whole series was mostly for the historical aspects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: alcoholism

“I’ve been thinking," Aziraphale said.

Crowley heard Aziraphale speak, but didn’t actually listen. Instead he was trying to mind control the ducks who were waddling past the park bench where the two of them sat. He had had little to no luck so far. There was potential for a new hobby, though. He was in need of a hobby now that they were both unemployed for good. 

The ducks changed their course minutely and Crowley congratulated himself. He vaguely recalled that encouragement was essential when learning a new skill. Then his brain finally caught up with his ears, and informed him that Aziraphale hadn’t actually told him what he had been thinking about.

“What is it, angel?” he asked and looked up at Aziraphale. He was surprised to see a little concerned frown on the face of his friend. The ducks still waddled at the periphery of Crowley’s vision and were fighting to get his attention, but they would have to wait. There would be other ducks. There was only one Aziraphale.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley briefly but avoided looking at him directly. 

“I’ve been thinking," he repeated, “that it might be nice to go visit Klondike.”

“Klondike," Crowley repeated in turn, his voice carefully void of any emotion, ducks now entirely forgotten.

“Yes," Aziraphale said and cleared his throat. “I, um... I left something there that I’d very much like to retrieve. I haven't been able to, not with –," he glanced upwards, “– them keeping an eye on me.” 

“Hate to break it to you," Crowley said, “but it’s been a hundred and twenty years. Whatever you left there is long gone.”

Aziraphale shot a look at him. “Not necessarily. Not if it’s buried in ice.”

“Hmm. Lucky.”

Aziraphale didn’t continue and the two of them sat in silence. Crowley didn’t hurry to fill it. Patience was another one of his new hobbies. He could afford to take his time these days. He watched the birds of St. James Park waddle past them and let his mind wander.

They never discussed Klondike. In fact, Crowley was fairly certain the name of the place had never been mentioned between the two of them, not ever since they left the place each on their own. Saying it now felt foreign on his tongue, similar to what he imagined cursing might feel like for humans. 

Klondike would be different these days. The gold rush had been a few short and odd years, during which Dawson City had boomed. After the gold rush it turned into a ghost town in comparison to what it had once been. And again, after 120 years of unbelievably rapid developments of the human race, the city probably had reinvented itself once more, now living on tourism and culture. The industrial mining would have left its mark on the so-called untamed wilderness too, even if Crowley had done his best sabotage some of the endeavours.

But if Crowley ever went back to Klondike, it wouldn’t be for the sights or the tourism. It would be because Aziraphale had asked him to. And he realised that the decision had already been made.

“Alright. Let’s go to Klondike," Crowley said, so casually he sounded indifferent. 

“Really?” Aziraphale said. The happiness and relief in his voice was a delight to Crowley’s ears. Aziraphale really had been nervous, Crowley realised. The thought made something like hope flicker inside him. Dangerous. He snuffed it out.

A swan couple took off from the pond. Crowley saw Aziraphale follow them with his gaze as they disappeared over the treetops.

“It’ll be for old times’ sake," Aziraphale said, looking at the distance. 

Crowley hummed as a reply, even though he had no idea what “old times” it was that Aziraphale referred to. Did it count as “old times” when Crowley had purposefully messed up Aziraphale’s assignment while drunk? Or did he mean before that, the short month during which they had shared a life? How about even that one beautiful spring day, the day Crowley would never forget?

For old times’ sake, then. Whatever it was Aziraphale meant by it.

* * *

The winter during which Aziraphale witnessed the burning of Saloon Fortuna turned out to be his last in Klondike. That spring, when the sun began to thaw the snow, Aziraphale received orders to abandon his post. It was the spring of 1899, and three years had passed since he had first arrived to White Agony Creek.

Aziraphale stood by the cabin and stared at the spot where Gabriel had been a moment earlier, triumphantly announcing the new orders. He wondered if he should have felt happier about the news. But there was only a distant relief, and hardly any of the excitement he had thought there would be. 

Because even though the Earth was ever-changing, change didn’t come naturally to Aziraphale. It had taken him a long time to get used to the life of a prospector. And even though he had longed to return to London, something in him was resisting the change once again. But it wasn’t only about the change of lifestyle either. Of course it wasn’t. That resistance in Aziraphale had a little nagging voice that told him: _if you leave now, all will remain unresolved between you and Crowley. In London you will both behave like none of this ever happened. Just you wait and see._

Aziraphale began to prepare the claim for his departure. Keeping himself busy day and night, he tried his best not to think about Crowley. All his thoughts about Crowley were a tangle of contradictions these days anyway. His resolve to protect Crowley by keeping her away was now tarnished with Crowley’s cruelty and neglect. His fear of getting caught fraternising was now tampered by the sorrow of possibly never seeing Crowley again. His longing to see Crowley was…

Actually, his longing was just like it had always been. Some things didn’t change. If anything, it had become harder to ignore, even though Aziraphale had a long history of practicing just that. But these days the longing was fuelled by actual memories, and not only by distant dreams. Memories like the feel of Crowley’s coppery hair in Aziraphale’s rough miner’s hands...

Aziraphale gathered all the gold he had at the claim. He was meant to take it to the nearest bank and deposit it there, so that Heaven could then decide what righteous causes to use it for. Oh, and not to mention – so that Heaven could get organic, hand-mined Earth gold for their make-up. _Harvested by Heavenly Hands Using Authentic Human Methods,_ was the tagline, or something like that. It was the latest fashion statement upstairs. It was also the reason why Aziraphale had had to suffer through three cold and dark winters of Yukon with hardly any miracles to use. Once he had been too embarrassed to even think about it. Now the cold of the winters had burned away the embarrassment, and only a distant sense of humiliation remained.

Lifeless nuggets of the yellow metal were cold on Aziraphale’s palms. They were as cold as Crowley had once been, laying in the snow. A piece of that very same metal had been the trigger for the mess the two of them had made in the first place. Gold, Crowley, Crowley, gold. Aziraphale knew he’d never decorate his own skin with the metal, not even if all the other angels in Heaven would. The sooner he got rid of it all, the better. 

Still, the way it glimmered on his palm… It was one of the few things in the world that could compete with the beauty of Crowley’s eyes. Sunsets, maybe, and gold.

Aziraphale missed those eyes dearly.

He put a small portion of the gold away as a memento before packing the rest to go. The closest bank was in the city of Whitehorse, and the hike there was much longer than to Dawson. Aziraphale packed lightly and hardly slept or ate during the hike. For the last stretch of the journey he managed to hitch a ride in a boat heading up the Yukon River. 

Reaching Whitehorse, Aziraphale deposited the gold in the bank and then treated himself with a real meal in a local saloon. Whitehorse had a different feel to it than Dawson, and its streets were much more inviting. After the meal Aziraphale wandered through the city and thought about London. How would it be like to settle back to metropolitan life? There were electric lights in the streets there these days. Such a funny little invention of the humans. 

A small but busy store caught Aziraphale’s eye. _Colonial Goods,_ it advertised on its windows. And in the display, next to all kinds of bright colored treats that made Aziraphale’s mouth water, there was one box that especially caught his attention. It was a box covered with black velveteen and tied with a dark red ribbon. He had to lean closer to read the label.

_The Finest And Darkest Chocolate._

A pair of golden eyes flashed in Aziraphale’s mind. Once, a long time ago, in a saloon that had since burned down, those eyes had looked at him and lit up when he had tasted chocolate. 

The bell above the shop door tinkled when Aziraphale stepped in. After a moment it rang again when he came out, this time with a package in his hands. It was wrapped in thick, protective brown paper that rustled gently as he held it.

So began Aziraphale’s journey back to White Agony Creek for one last time. His rucksack was light now that the gold had been deposited. Sitting on the deck of the river boat, Aziraphale held the paper-covered package in his hands and stared at the slowly changing landscape without seeing it. 

He had bought the box of chocolates without a clear plan. The memory of him and Crowley drinking wine and sharing a box of chocolate in her suite belonged to another time. A much simpler time. He had seen the box of chocolates on the display, and for a moment he had though… What _had_ he thought? That they could return to what they had had back then, as if nothing had happened? Surely it could not be so simple. Crowley had made it quite clear she wasn’t even part of the Arrangement anymore.

But the thought of leaving Klondike without even attempting to reconcile was heavy. London loomed in the horizon with the polite and distant manners of city life. Somehow all emotions seemed… more accessible here in Klondike. It would be easier to reach out here than to wait for them to meet again in London. 

Then again, what would he even say if he arrived at Dawson with such a sentimental gift? Was it him who ought to apologise, or was it Crowley? So many things were unresolved. It all got mixed up in a great tangle of feelings and thoughts, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure where to even begin sorting it out. The package felt heavier in Aziraphale’s hands than it had any right to feel. The pieces of chocolate inside the paper-covered box rattled softly when he put the package away into his rucksack. 

He began to search for words. 

* * *

Aziraphale’s life as a prospector was now neatly packed in two sleds. The bigger one contained all the prospecting gear he managed to fit in it. He would donate them to any poor miner in Dawson or on his way there. The smaller sled contained the sentimental items which he would bring with him to London. The strongbox, the axe, and the coffee pot were some of the items in it. The box of chocolates wrapped in brown paper, now accompanied by a carefully composed letter, was also safely tucked away in the smaller sled. 

It had taken Aziraphale weeks to come up with the right words. The words had to both maintain deniability, and yet offer a clear enough wish for reconciliation. Getting the words on paper had been an Herculean task, and Aziraphale felt as if all his courage had been poured on the page. He had outsourced it all for the letter. But now that it was done, all he had to do was to hand the envelope over, and it would do its task. Nothing more was required from him, and he doubted he would have been capable of anything more than that either.

The cabin stood on its hill, empty and clean. By the creek, any structures that disturbed the natural flow of the water had been disassembled. The shed was empty of firewood. It would have been polite to save some for the next residents of the cabin, but there would be none. Heaven would seal the valley from humankind once Aziraphale was gone. 

He had not asked whether it meant _all_ of the humans, or only the ones Heaven concerned themselves with.

Aziraphale closed the door of the cabin with a sense of finality that he rarely felt. This was the one and only house he had ever built for himself. It hadn’t been much of a home, but it had served its purpose. And the memories it held, those were unmatched in every sense. Aziraphale sighed and placed his hand on the doorframe for one last time before turning away. 

He passed the old spot of the campfire without stopping and went to his sleds. Strictly speaking he would have needed dogs for pulling them. They were too heavy for any human to even nudge. But Aziraphale held to the ropes of each of the sleds, and got them gliding over the thawing spring snow easily. He headed towards the glacier.

By the opening of the ice cave he turned around and took in the sight of the valley for one last time. White Agony Creek. It had lived up to its name, Aziraphale thought and shook his head. But there had been moments of bliss lived here too. Bliss unlike he had ever experienced before. And hadn’t ever since. 

“Farewell,” he said quietly. Would he ever see the place again? If he ever were to write poems or stories, like Crowley had once suggested, maybe they would be about this. 

Aziraphale nodded his last goodbye for the valley, turned around and pulled the sleds into the cave. 

Wrangling two sleds at the same time next to the rocky creek proved to be difficult even for Aziraphale. He left the smaller sled where it had gotten wedged between river stones and pulled the heavier one through first, only stopping to pat the frozen mammoth’s leg affectionately when he passed it, as was his habit. Once he got to the other end of the tunnel and away from the icy terrain of the passage, the sled moved easily again. He turned to go back to the cave when a sound like thunder stopped him on the spot.

The sound expanded and shook the ground. A wave like an earthquake made Aziraphale loose his balance and he fell on all fours on the snow. The glacier that had for three long years stood there stable as a base rock was now trembling. With a rumble, the roof of the ice cave started raining down in a flurry of icy debris. And just a few steps away from Aziraphale, the cave finally folded in on itself with a sigh, gracefully and in a controlled manner, following a heavenly order. 

The cave was sealed as it had never been there. Aziraphale staggered to his feet. 

“No,” he gasped and rushed towards the glacier. “No! Not yet! My sled –”

He clawed blocks of ice out of the wall, trying to see if the pathway was still there. 

“Why so soon? Why?” he asked from the wall, pulling out more blocks of ice, but found nothing but more ice underneath. The glacier stood above him, judging his every move. Its icy wall rose above him like it could have reached all the way up to Heaven. 

Aziraphale’s arms lost their strength. It was no use. He let his legs give up under him and he crumbled on the snow. “Shit,” he whispered.

The sled with all the items he had cared about was now buried in Heavenly ice. And most crucially, the chocolate and the letter were gone too. With them was buried his hope for reconciliation. He had had a _plan._ He would have gone to Dawson, found Crowley, and given her the damn letter and it would have been done and dealt with. All he would have needed to do was to hand it over. And now...

Aziraphale groaned and dropped his head in his hands. He could feel his resolve slipping away, the momentum draining. Everything had been set to motion back in Whitehorse, quietly prompted by that box of chocolates. He had simply gone along with it. 

But it was all lost now. Aziraphale knew, he _just_ _knew_ that if he were to go to Dawson now he would not get a single word out of his mouth. He would stand there, tongue-tied. He would make a fool of himself, and Crowley would laugh. 

Golden eyes, cruel and neglectful, would look down at him behind those tinted glasses, as he would stutter and fail to find the words. 

Eventually Aziraphale got up. He felt cold and small. He felt as if he was watching from somewhere far away as his feet started taking him and the one remaining sled to the opposite direction of Dawson, towards the nearest city with a port. 

* * *

Crowley knew Aziraphale had left the continent. 

It shouldn’t have come as a shock. Aziraphale had been a prospector, after all, and the gold rush was over. Dawson City was losing population as a new stampede took prospectors elsewhere. It made sense that Aziraphale’s assignment in Klondike ended as well. That’s what it was. It was sensible. 

It broke Crowley’s heart nevertheless.

She wasn’t sure when it got broken exactly. One day when she had woken up in her suite littered with empty bottles and glasses, after an unmemorable night of partying, Crowley had simply known it was the case. She was alone, Aziraphale had rejected her once more, and this time it had left Crowley with a broken heart. 

Crowley was drunk often during her last year in Klondike. Little by little, Dorothy took over managing the newly built Saloon Fortuna. In the end, it didn’t come as a surprise to anyone when Crowley announced she was leaving Klondike and leaving the saloon in Dorothy’s care. Everyone knew the business was not bound to last for much longer, anyway. But it did come as a surprise to Crowley to see all the tears that were shed during her farewell party. Crowley had most definitely _not_ been a motherly figure for her crew. She had managed the saloon with a cold and emotionless efficiency that came from knowing the ins and outs of human nature. Even so, the farewell party went down in history as the last great celebration of the last great gold rush. It nearly burned Dawson to the ground again, and that was a sign of a celebration done right if anything. 

“Take care of yourself, Crowley,” Dorothy had said.

“To the new century,” Crowley had replied and raised her glass. 

Cat’s-eye Crowley left Dawson City, and Anthony J. Crowley returned to London. New name for a new man, he supposed. And if at all possible, a new heart as well. He would be needing one. The stubborn ache in his chest hadn’t washed away with all the alcohol Dawson had to offer. 

Crowley had thought that hearing a ‘no’ from Aziraphale would hurt. He had been preparing for it. But never, even in his worst nightmares, had he thought Aziraphale might just not respond at all. And the thought of being ignored completely, as if his feelings were an embarrassing odor that was best not to comment on, that was what made it hurt. That was what made the dull throbbing in his chest turn into a sensation of being hollowed out. If he were to be cut open, there would have been no human heart to be found, but just an empty, aching space. Crowley was sure of it. A hole had been punched in his chest, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Anything would have been better than indifference. Anything. Anger, lashing out, shock. Even... even outright disgust might have been more manageable, Crowley had begun to suspect. 

Anything but this dreadful silence. 

But what did one demon care about a broken heart when there were the joys of the new century to be enjoyed! Automobiles! Electricity! Moving images! 

A war.

Dancing! Recorded music! Radio! Endless joys of humanity to be experienced. It was all a demon on Earth could have asked for. 

Somewhere along the fuzzy years, Crowley swept the pieces of his beaten heart under the rug of his life. What did it matter that Aziraphale had not cared enough to come say goodbye to him? What did it matter that Aziraphale pretended like Crowley had never written those words in the letter? New music, new dances, new booze. What did it matter that Aziraphale had abandoned Crowley? He had other pleasures in his life. He didn’t _need_ Aziraphale. 

And every morning after a night of celebration, walking on the rug and hearing pieces of broken glass shatter under his shoes, he knew the answers to each of the questions with a painful clarity. What did it matter? It mattered everything. Simply and without any excuses, Crowley knew that Aziraphale mattered everything to him. And no amount of new music, new dances and new booze could patch up the hollow ache in his chest. 

Crowley got himself a car. A Bentley. It was beautiful and powerful, and he suspected he might have loved it. He drove fast and he drove far. He talked to strangers in distant places and smoked cigarettes in the rain. He did bad deeds and he did some good ones too. And with every mile he spent driving, with every cigarette he smoked, with every year that Aziraphale continued not to be there, Crowley began to settle down with his pain. He stopped chasing it away, and it didn’t punch him hollow quite so often anymore.

And after four decades had passed and Aziraphale still had not shown up, Crowley started to think he was ready. He wasn’t sure. He knew it was a risk he was taking. But if it was a choice of either losing Aziraphale completely or going back to playing by Aziraphale’s rules, Crowley now knew what he would choose. 

When another war came about, Crowley picked up the pieces of his beaten heart, whatever little shards he could find. He hid them far away from his sleeves. No letter had ever been sent. Klondike might as well not have happened. Crowley was fine, and he would show Aziraphale exactly how fine he was. This was Aziraphale’s game, but Crowley knew how to play it too. 

Crowley hopped into a church.

* * *

Aziraphale sat very still in Crowley’s new automobile, trying to root himself to the feeling of the handle of the briefcase in his hands. The world was new and unknown, and the world was bright and familiar too, because all of a sudden Crowley was here.

Crowley was here, driving the automobile next to him, and everything was exactly as it used to be. 

Everything was fine. Finally, finally, after years of regret, everything was back to normal.

Aziraphale tried to sit very still, but he caught himself stealing glances of Crowley, again and again. Good Lord, how Aziraphale had missed seeing his face. His face, her face, all the faces Crowley had ever had. A strange joy, an untameable relief was bubbling underneath Aziraphale’s skin, tingling like warm summer rain. He tried his very best not to name the emotion more accurately than that. Named or not, the emotion was there, and he knew it had surfaced to stay. But even as it made the whole world shine oh so bright, it also tied his tongue. 

Luckily to Aziraphale, Crowley chattered on easily about the wonders of the new century. Aziraphale got lost in his familiar voice.

Too soon they reached Aziraphale’s bookshop, and before Aziraphale had time to gather his thoughts enough to ask Crowley to share a bottle of wine with him, Crowley had said _ciao_ and driven away. Aziraphale watched the automobile disappear around a corner and felt the bubble of joy inside him deflate. A strain of worry tugged him instead.

Something had been off. Crowley wasn’t – or at least, hadn’t been _–_ the type to chatter. It ought to have been Aziraphale filling the car with mindless observations about the past decades. It had never been Crowley who filled the silence with meaningless words. 

Aziraphale went into the bookshop and arranged the miraculously unharmed books back to their designated places. He traced their backs fondly. All was forgiven, if it was up to him. Saving the books had been a peace offering from Crowley. He was sure of it. And after so many lonely decades of regret, shame and second-guessing, he was eager to accept it.

Seeing Crowley today made it hard for Aziraphale to remember why exactly he had left Klondike without ever saying goodbye. He just knew it had felt outright _impossible_ to go to Dawson and face Crowley. And for decades he had beaten himself up for it, and consequently postponed and postponed meeting Crowley again. Arranging a meeting had felt too heavy, too massive a task to even begin to consider. Next year he would do it, he had promised to himself. But the next year had always come sooner than he had thought.

Cold, distant eyes of gold had mocked him for his cowardice through the past decades. But during the short glimpse Aziraphale had gotten of those eyes tonight, at the ruins of the demolished church, they had been anything but cold and distant. How had he remembered Crowley so wrong?

And now Crowley had beaten him to apologising. How was that a suitable position for an angel? It was not, and he surely could do better than that. He should be better. Better for Crowley, better for himself, better for the world. 

But maybe especially for Crowley.

There really had been something uncanny in the way Crowley had chattered. Aziraphale wondered if he had offended Crowley somehow. The last time they had seen each other was when Saloon Fortuna had been on fire. And then there was the letter Aziraphale had not dared to open…

He should really apologise for not opening the letter. It had been bad manners, plain and simple. What had he been so afraid of? Here in London, far away from the cold and cruel winters of the Yukon, it was hard to remember. Polite London, where people admittedly were no less bloodthirsty, but had manners to hide it. Aziraphale ought to have manners too.

He brewed himself some tea and looked around the bookshop. Returning there after Klondike had been marvellous, and for years he had been more or less satisfied with burying himself in good books and in good food. But the decades since his return had been lonely as well. Once in Klondike he had thought of sharing this solitary life with Crowley. It had been a distant dream and he knew it could never come true. But now that Crowley was back… Maybe, just maybe, he might dare to suggest that they could dine together some time. A picnic would be nice. Or going to the Ritz. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to ask? If they were careful and didn’t let things get out of hand, if they were sensible and didn’t rush things like they had back in Klondike… Then they might be able to spend time together again. 

It took Aziraphale a couple of decades to figure out what gesture was the most appropriate for apologising Crowley in return. It was a difficult decision and not one to be made lightly. After all, Crowley had already been targeted by smiting, marked by a blessed axe and burned by consecrated ground, all in less than a century. Giving him more means to hurt himself went against Aziraphale’s every instinct. He did it anyway. He did it because he needed to be better. He did it for Crowley. 

* * *

Crowley held the thermos carefully in his hands. It felt delicate, and he himself felt delicate too. The whole world felt delicate, because Aziraphale had come to him. Aziraphale had come to him, and resolved an argument dating back to time even before Klondike. Crowley was holding the evidence of it in his hands. 

Complicated emotions were swirling inside of him, and he wasn’t sure what to make of them. Was this Aziraphale’s way of responding to his letter too? Was Aziraphale offering more than just the thermos? What was his gesture really about? A treacherous sliver of hope was flickering inside of him, and he was terrified of it.

Aziraphale was asking to spend time with him. A picnic? Dining at Ritz? Crowley was dizzy with relief. He offered Aziraphale a lift, but he wanted to offer so much more. He wanted to say it all. He could feel the words burning on his tongue again, just like half a century ago. The world was spinning with the possibility of him saying them. It would set the world right, just having it out in the open. Now that Aziraphale was finally reaching out to him, Crowley could end this never-ending silence. He could back away from Aziraphale’s game once more and set his own rules. Tonight it felt possible. He could just tell Aziraphale that he lo–

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Hope was a dangerous thing. Crowley was happy he had not dared to fully believe in his hope that night. Otherwise he might have gotten some funny ideas about the Holy Water. 

The words rang in his head often during the following decades. _Too fast, too fast, too fast._ It was a rejection, and yet, in some twisted way, Crowley was happy for it. Anything was better than the silence. A rejection was a response. And a rejection was something real to mourn. It was something to talk about to the strangers in the night, when the hollow ache did not stay at bay. 

“See, there is this guy, you know? We were totally hitting it off, and he’s just so gorgeous, with his curly hair and…” Neon coloured lights of the night club blinded Crowley as he conjured an image of his angel in his mind. “We had a good thing going, and I realise, whoopsie, maybe I have feelings involved in this after all? But this guy, he has, he has this really conservative family, you know? And he’s all like, I can’t be with you, yada yada, I’m afraid of conseuq-, consseuqui-, con… you know! That’s no excuse! I’ve been through the same and I’m not complaining. So I’m like, fine! Choose me or choose your family! And then, and then, after ages he comes back to me and is like, you go too fast for me. What am I supposed to make of that, hmm?”

“It’s clear, isn’t it?” his companion said.

“The fuck?”

“Come on. You gave him an impossible choice to make.” 

“I did?”

“Families… they are difficult. If he’s not ready, not even a pretty boy like you can force him to leave his family. And he did tell you what you did wrong, didn’t he?

“He did?”

“He said you go too _fast_ for him. Now how does that sound to you?”

“Like a rejection,” Crowley mumbled. 

“No, darling. It means that he still wants to go with you, but at a slower pace. In his pace. And no wonder, after you forced him between a rock and a hard place. Pleasantly hard, I’m sure. But he’ll come around. Just you wait. You are too irresistible to say no to.”

Crowley stared into the bright coloured darkness of the nightclub. 

“I don’t know, Freddie. I gotta… I gotta go.”

“Good night, lover boy.” 

The long and lonely decades of the late 20th century passed slowly. There was faint, flickery hope, but it was a treacherous thing. It changed nothing. 

He had always been pushing Aziraphale. Back in Klondike he had finally pushed too hard and something had broken. He had scared Aziraphale away. But if Aziraphale had really asked Crowley to _slow down…_ It might change things. If that was the problem, there was a solution to that too. He would only need to take ten steps back, and then ten more for a good measure. He would need to give Aziraphale all the space and time that he might possibly need. If that was the way to get Aziraphale back to his life, Crowley would do it. 

His car was an old car now, and he still loved it. Driving aimlessly in the dark roads of the countryside, time stretched in front of him like the empty road, never-ending and without a destination. Just the journey remained.

_I know now, angel. I never should have pressured you like I did. Take your time. Take all the time you need. I acted like the world was ending, but it's not. I'll go slow for you, if that's what you need._

Just how slow Aziraphale needed Crowley to go, he still would have liked to know. 

Miles and years went by. In the end, it did require the threat of the end of the world for Crowley to reach Aziraphale again. Because if it was a choice of either letting Aziraphale have his space or letting their whole shared world end without interfering, Crowley knew which he would choose. Even if the possibility of scaring Aziraphale away was equally terrifying as the end of the world.

The mobile network was down, though, thanks to himself. He pulled the Bentley to the side of a road and called Aziraphale from a phone booth.

* * *

When Aziraphale’s worst fears came true, he went to Hell and asked for a rubber duck.

He laughed about it with Crowley afterwards. 

Not all the fears went away, of course. If it only was that simple. But at least the world didn’t end, neither the Earth or Aziraphale’s own. Instead there were more days, one after the other, just like there had been ever since the very first of days. The only difference now was the inexplicable sense of lightness that filled those new days. 

It wasn’t a completely new sensation. It had only been much, much rarer until now. 

There were still times when Aziraphale expected the world to come crashing down. Someone surely would shout at him again and point out all his lies and mistakes. But as the days kept on following each other and nobody came, that lightness gained more room in his life. Some days it was better. Some days it was worse. But it was getting better. 

And one thing definitely made it all better was that Crowley was back in his life. His presence radiated that familiar comfort that had always made the world feel right. It soothed Aziraphale’s nerves on the bad days. And what was even better: Aziraphale had no reason to insist on keeping the distance anymore. If it was up to him, Crowley could have very well moved into the bookshop already. 

He did not know how to ask him to, though. Crowley had always been the one to take the initiative. Given enough time, he would surely get the hint about this as well and lead the way. The thought of it was delightful, and Aziraphale looked forward to it very much.

So for now, Crowley was a frequent visitor. There were lunch dates and dinner meetings. They went to concerts and to the theater. Sometimes Crowley persuaded Aziraphale to come to the cinema with him, and usually he regretted joining. But sometimes Crowley picked an older film, one with slower pace and less colours, and those he enjoyed. 

There were bottles of wine shared and whiskeys sampled. Books read out loud. Stories told that they had already heard but were happy to hear again. Naps taken, mostly by Crowley. Coffee shops and tiny sushi places discovered, mostly by Aziraphale. Crowley always joined for company, though. Aziraphale sometimes joined in on the napping as well.

Crowley even took Aziraphale for a ride in the Bentley every now and then and made an attempt to drive slightly slower. Aziraphale appreciated his effort. They left London and went to the seaside for a while, just the two of them.

And Aziraphale waited. 

He waited to feel a hand on his lower back, guiding him, whenever Crowley opened the door to the theater for them. When they were at the coast, he let wind pop his collar up and waited for Crowley to reach over and smooth it back down. And during the many evenings spent at the bookshop, trading stories and arguing which of them remembered the correct version, he waited for Crowley to place a hand on his shoulder for emphasis. 

Those evenings he also waited for Crowley to come sit closer to him. He waited for Crowley to reach out and take his hand, to play with his fingers when he was bored. And Aziraphale waited – oh how he waited – for Crowley to just lean over and kiss him already.

But Crowley kept him waiting. There was no hand guiding him through doors, or smoothing his collar down. Crowley always sat an appropriate distance away, always kept his hands to himself, and especially did no such thing as to lean over and kiss Aziraphale. Actually, it seemed Crowley hardly ever touched him at all. Aziraphale tried to remember if that had always been the case. But surely it didn’t matter how things had been before. They were free now. The world was theirs. All that had been holding them back had been their opposing sides. And now that they were free, there should have been nothing stopping them from continuing from where they left off back in 1897, back in that beautiful spring day in Klondike. 

At least... At least Aziraphale had thought so. 

He had also thought that Crowley would do what he always did and lead the way. 

But it wouldn’t be the first time he was mistaken. 

* * *

Life was good, Crowley thought. It was not perfect, but it was good.

Evenings like this it was pretty close to perfect, though. The day had been spent on a short trip to the seaside. Bentley had grown accustomed to Aziraphale’s presence and even played other songs than Queen if it was Aziraphale picking the music. Crowley wondered if he should be jealous. He didn’t really want to bother. After years and years of driving alone, having Aziraphale next to him in the car felt wildly intimate. His car favouring Aziraphale over him was a small price to pay for that. 

Now laying on the sofa in the bookshop, Crowley could still imagine the smell of the salty wind in his tousled hair. It couldn’t have been real, though, since the bookshop’s dusty smell of old books dominated so easily over everything else. It was probably more like a feeling. An echo of that thrilling freedom he was still not used to. Something about that untameable wind of the seaside was ideal to highlight that freedom. 

Crowley had smiled a lot that day, and Aziraphale had smiled back. 

Now Aziraphale was reading a book on his armchair. Crowley could see him if he craned his neck. Aziraphale was wearing those cute little reading glasses of his, and his nose was slightly scrunched up, as if he didn’t quite agree with the book. Crowley didn’t ask what the disagreement was about. Aziraphale would tell it to him in his own time, if he wanted to. Right now Crowley was simply content to lay there, completely relaxed in a space that was so wholly Aziraphale’s. He still marveled at the fact that he was welcome there. Aziraphale seemed happy to share his life with Crowley this way. Facing the Armageddon together had been good for their friendship. 

Yes, Aziraphale was his friend. Best friend, even. Crowley was happy about it. The century before the emergence of the Anti-Christ had been… tough. But it was fine. This was more than Crowley had dared to hope for for so many decades. Klondike, disagreements, confessions, the decades of silence, they all seemed to be left in the past. Crowley surely was not going to bring them up. 

_Too fast…_

Crowley took his time these days. He drove slower. He paused before he spoke his mind. Sometimes he didn’t speak his mind at all. He didn’t reach to touch Aziraphale when he would have wanted to, which added up to not reaching a _lot._ And Aziraphale seemed content to have Crowley in his life at this pace. If it came at the cost of always swallowing down his own feelings, his own pain and his own truths… Well. He had made his choice. It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was his. 

And again, right now, Crowley refused the urge to reach his hand to Aziraphale, to cross the little distance between the sofa and the armchair. It was just one of the many no’s he told himself daily. There was to be no attempts to hold Aziraphale’s hand tonight either. Aziraphale needed his space. Instead Crowley crossed his arms over his chest, sunk deeper into the sofa and closed his eyes. It was enough to lie here like this. Aziraphale was next to him in the armchair, and that was enough. 

It had to be. 

* * *

Aziraphale finished the book and snapped it shut. He had read it before, but not in a long while. Jack wrote about Klondike differently than he himself remembered it having been, and while he was happy of the success of the book, it had never become one of his personal favourites. But the scenery Jack described… It awakened vivid sensory memories. The blinding brightness of the snow. The scent of the freshly chopped firewood. The cold weight of the gold nuggets in the palm of his hand. 

Crowley shifted slightly on the sofa, still sleeping but nearly woken by Aziraphale handling the book so carelessly. Aziraphale put the book carefully away, then sat back to look at Crowley, smiling. There were other sensory memories relating to Klondike too. The feel of Crowley’s hair, to start with. His hair had been long back then, usually gathered up or braided, but sometimes flowing freely in waves. Now the messy mop of Crowley’s hair was all Aziraphale could see of his head. It was a little longer that it had been for a while, reaching well over Crowley’s eyes if he let it slide to his face. Crowley would often run his fingers through it and persuade it to stay back. Everytime Aziraphale saw him do it, he wished it was him running his fingers through the hair instead. He hadn’t so far, but he had promised to himself he would someday.

Someday. 

Aziraphale sighed. It was another rabbit hole of postponing and he was rapidly falling into it. The world was supposedly theirs now, and still nothing had changed. Once, over a century ago, he had had a plan to change things. He had bought a box of chocolates and written a letter. And what had happened when one little thing hadn’t gone according to that plan? He had panicked, and fallen into postponing. He had begun it then and he was still doing it now. Over a century had passed and precisely nothing had changed. 

Crowley’s hair looked soft and it shone beautifully in the dim light of the bookshop. Aziraphale stroked the soft and worn fabric of the armchair to keep his fingers from reaching over.

It wasn’t quite true that nothing had changed, though. Their whole situation had changed, as Heaven and Hell had let them go. It should have changed everything. Why hadn’t it?

Thinking back a century, Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley had changed too. This change made him worry, though. Crowley was… further away. Even though Crowley was more tightly involved in Aziraphale’s life these days, he still managed to be further away. Crowley was _polite_ these days, and Aziraphale felt it in his bones that it was wrong. Crowley was _not_ supposed to be polite. Crowley was supposed to poke and prod until Aziraphale gave in. That was the Crowley he had come to know and… 

...and love. He didn’t bother to disguise the feeling anymore. It was love, and it always had been. After thousands of years of hiding his love in the fear of getting caught, the feeling had finally dug itself out beneath his fears and worries. Aziraphale didn’t have the willpower, or the will, to keep it locked away now that the world was theirs. 

Yes, the world had changed, for the better. Crowley had changed, bluntly put, for the worse. It was only Aziraphale that hadn’t changed. He was still stuck in his old habits, waiting for Crowley to show him the way. 

But Crowley had not.

The fingers stroking the soft fabric began tapping it instead, erratic patterns following a distant symphony playing at the back of Aziraphale’s mind. The urge to reach over to Crowley was more than to get to feel the texture of his hair. Aziraphale wanted to reach further. He wanted to remove the glasses that always hid Crowley’s beautiful eyes these days. He wanted to look into those eyes and tell Crowley everything. He actually could, now. Nothing was stopping him anymore. He could tell all about the love he had nurtured for so long. 

And still, after all this time, he had not dared to say it out loud.

Bright snow, freshly ground coffee and the flash of those golden eyes. Jack’s book had brought Klondike straight into Aziraphale’s bookshop. Somewhere far away, buried in a wall of ice, was a letter that had a beginning of a conversation written in it. The words were old and laced with careful denial, remnants of the world they were not a part of anymore. That letter would not be enough on its own, but if used as a stepping stone… 

Crowley slept soundly on the sofa. Aziraphale began to search for new words. 

* * *

“I’ve been thinking,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley didn’t listen at first. There were ducks. But when Aziraphale suggested they’d go to Klondike, he was all ears. 

“It’ll be for old times’ sake,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley didn’t know what he meant by that. But where Aziraphale went, Crowley followed. 

That was how the world was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farewell, White Agony Creek, farewell the three long years. [Last Sled by Tuomas Holopainen](https://open.spotify.com/track/7qOx96ZYXCfzkg0nSg2Fnz?si=CAM8dRDhQb6rfIzZWCHE2Q) is the sole reason for why this last part of the series is written. There was a time I honestly thought I could finish with the angsty ending of the Hearts. But the song would not have matched, and so this part had to be written. 
> 
> This was meant to be just a short fix-it, too. And what happens? 40k happens! I don’t understand. 
> 
> All my respect to Freddie Mercury who I borrowed as the voice of reason and hope when Crowley had neither.
> 
> Also, I was happy to include a cameo from actual ducks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to note that the pacing of this fic is quite a bit slower than some earlier parts of the series. I debated whether I should add some kind of an external threat to stay more in line with Prisoners and Cold Hearts, but honestly, that would be just too cruel to these poor buggers. They are safe and shall be only battling inner conflicts this time around!
> 
> I have weekly chapters finished for about a month ahead now, and continue fiddling with some tricky E-rated parts of the last chapters. My biggest thanks for everyone reading! every kudos means a world to me ❤️

There was a crisp and new envelope safely tucked in the inner pocket of Aziraphale’s coat. His hand traveled up to it often, checking if the solid shape of the thick paper was still there. It was. Every time he checked, the envelope continued to be there, defying his expectations. Every other time the revelation thrilled him, and every other time it filled him terror. 

Aziraphale also had a plan. It was a simple plan with effectively only two steps. The first step was to give Crowley the old letter from his sled. That would force them to begin a conversation about their past. The second step was to give Crowley the new letter from his pocket. And that would _guarantee_ a conversation about their future as well. 

Easy. 

But because his plan relied heavily on keeping Crowley involved, before step one could commence, there was an argument to be had. Of course there was.

“Just because no-one restricts your miracles anymore, it doesn’t mean we _have_ to use them!” Crowley said, his voice too loud for the tiny sushi restaurant they were in. 

Aziraphale glanced at him, dedicated to not letting his annoyance show. He picked up a nigiri with his chopsticks. “I don’t see why not. It’s the easiest way.”

“Yes, but where’s the fun in that? Planes, angel! It’s fun!”

“How your idea of fun involves us being trapped in a metal tube for an ungodly amount of time, I cannot understand.” Wasabi, soy sauce, and a peace of mind were all that was required for properly enjoying sushi. Aziraphale only had two out of the three.

“But it _is_ fun! _”_ Crowley continued. “It’s _hilarious._ Humans finally figure out how to fly, and then proceed to make it as miserable as possible. Peak humanity, if you ask me.”

“See? That’s exactly why we should _not_ fly. Miserable. Said it yourself. We will just appear to Klondike, and that’s that.” Aziraphale shut his own mouth with sushi to signal that the conversation was over. 

Crowley didn’t take the hint. “Come on, angel. It's been so long since I've been on a transatlantic flight. I _have to_ see it.”

Aziraphale chewed his mouthful of sushi very thoroughly, making sure to enjoy every aspect of it. Crowley began shifting on his seat. Finally, after swallowing and taking a sip of rice wine, Aziraphale responded. “What’s in it for me?”

“There’s, uh, there’s… a chance to help out the poor passengers trapped in the sky with us?”

“Really, now.” Aziraphale threw Crowley a look that he usually reserved only for the dense customers who kept coming back.

“Fine, yeah. Maybe the catering happens to be _exceptionally_ good during this one flight.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Fine. But it better be exceptional.”

The human way of travelling was laborious and sweaty, but what more or less made up for it was to get to see Crowley geek over all of its misery. Their ties to their head offices might have been cut, but the admiration for a job well done still remained. And no-one else was better at tormenting humans than the humans themselves, was what Crowley had always said. 

Unfortunately Aziraphale had to agree. 

And all the time while they queued, waited, got their tickets checked, waited again, realised they were waiting at the wrong place, found the right place to queue again and get their tickets checked again only to queue some more, the envelope burned bright inside Aziraphale’s coat. His hand fluttered up to check the shape of it, and he pretended to smooth down his coat to cover the nervous motion. If Crowley noticed, he didn’t point it out. Or he might just have been too busy admiring the many clever torments disguised as security checks. 

The last stretch of the journey was done by car, traveling comfortably on the North Klondike Highway. It had definitely not been there 120 years ago, when Aziraphale had done the same journey by foot. Crowley seemed relaxed behind the wheel, while Aziraphale pretended to browse various tourist guides about the area. He hardly registered anything he read, though. The harsh forests and the rising mountains that passed by were taking him to a time long past. 

Signposts signaled Dawson City getting closer and closer. _Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in traditional territory,_ said other signposts. Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in were the descendants of the Hän-speaking people, the brochures informed Aziraphale. They had negotiated the claim to their traditional territory some decades ago. A human mess, Crowley had once described the gold rush and the Hän. It was good to see that there were human solutions for the human messes too. 

And as with doing anything the human way, there was a real sense of accomplishment once they finally reached Dawson City in the evening. The car doors were shut with satisfying slams, and Aziraphale stretched his legs as he had so many times seen the humans do after a long journey. 

Crowley was already wandering down the streets while Aziraphale still revelled in the success of reaching their first destination. Next they would hike to White Agony Creek and find the sled. But it all could wait till tomorrow. Tonight they would rest. 

Aziraphale trailed after Crowley. Human world had changed so much in the past 120 years, but Dawson had been purposefully preserved as it had been during the gold rush. He admired the old-fashioned buildings and for once felt like his surroundings had the courtesy to match his dressing sense. 

“Angel?” Crowley shouted from somewhere around a corner. 

Aziraphale followed Crowley’s voice. His mouth fell open when he saw what Crowley had found: in front of them stood Saloon Fortuna, recognisable as ever. Smile took over his face as history flooded over him. The feeling was the same as when he walked in museums and had a chance to reminiscent the times when the world had been newer. Only this time the feeling was more personal than when seeing old pottery and paintings; the last time he had seen the saloon, the building had been in flames. And yet here it was, rebuilt and then preserved, like the rest of the town. The main difference was in the name: it was called _Hotel Fortuna_ now. 

“Do you have a hand in this?” Crowley asked and gestured at the building that in all likelihood should have long since collapsed.

“No, no. Last time I saw it, it was burning down,” Aziraphale said. He glanced at Crowley. It was the closest they had come to actually talking about their past so far. Crowley did not react to it, though. 

“Well, it wasn’t me either,” Crowley said, still looking at the building.

“Have humans preserved it in their own way? Rebuilt it?” Aziraphale suggested.

“Let’s find out." Crowley headed through the front doors of his old saloon. 

Aziraphale followed him. The interior of the place had changed much more than the exterior. Instead of a spacious dance hall that had once filled the ground floor, a cozy lobby of a hotel now greeted them. Crowley was already approaching the reception desk. A human dressed in a charmingly old-timey uniform stood behind it. 

“Welcome to Hotel Fortuna! How may I…” The receptionist began in a chipper customer service voice but soon trailed away. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. 

Crowley stopped in his tracks and tried looking at himself, then at Aziraphale, and pointed subtly towards his face. Aziraphale shook his head. No, Crowley had not forgotten any kind of a monster form on. Aziraphale stepped closer to the desk. “Are you quite alright, my dear?” 

The girl was still staring at Crowley, her mouth open. Aziraphale looked back at Crowley to see if he had missed any second or third heads Crowley might have grown lately. He always saw and loved Crowley as Crowley regardless of his form, so he might very well have missed some. But Crowley looked quite human. Even his glasses were on, as usual. Crowley looked back at Aziraphale and they both shrugged. 

Finally the receptionist recovered her voice. “Excuse me. Um… I’m sorry to be this direct, but... Do you happen to have family from here? Or any family members called Crowley?”

“Uh, yeah. Crowley is, uh… a family name," Crowley said uncertainly. He looked quite lost under such sudden scrutiny from a stranger. 

The receptionist’s face lit up and she gasped. “I knew it! You have extreme likeness!”

“Likeness?” Crowley repeated. 

The jaw of the receptionist dropped to the floor. “Are you saying you don’t know? Are you here _by chance?"_

“Why don’t you explain it from the start, dear," Aziraphale pitched in. Crowley was shifting uncomfortably at the spot. It would not do for him to start hypnotising people. They had just arrived, after all. 

“Oh, it’s best I show you,” the receptionist said. She walked away from behind the desk, still not able to tear her eyes from Crowley, and went towards a doorway at the side of the lobby. “If you could just follow me…”

On the other side of the doorway was a spacious room that seemed to double as a dining hall and an exhibition space. There, on the far wall hung a large painting depicting a familiar face. 

Cat’s-eye Crowley looked down at them with contempt. Golden framed tinted glasses covered her eyes, but even so a shiver of fear and thrill shot down Aziraphale’s spine at the sight. He recognised that look. But the saloon around her in the painting was not on fire. 

Aziraphale walked closer. With every step he took The True Star of The North loomed larger and more terrifying above him. Their past stared right at him, dressed in dark colors, hair shining in the warm light of the painting. The paint itself was chipped by age and the varnish over it had yellowed. 

With some difficulty Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the painting. A small information sign told the name of the painter and the year it had been made. 

  1. The same year when he had left Klondike. 



Aziraphale turned and saw Crowley staring at the painting too, mouth open. The receptionist watched him with unrestrained glee.

“Cat’s-eye Crowley!” she exclaimed. “The star of Saloon Fortuna and the one who made it into the legend it grew out to be! Are you saying you did not know you were related?”

“Well, yes… “Crowley tried to scramble words and got lost in a tangle of sounds. “I mean, I knew my grandma –” he shot a look at Aziraphale who subtly shook his head – “uh, my... _great_ grandma used to live here, yeah, but I didn’t know anyone would have _preserved_ any of her… work.” 

Aziraphale nodded. That sounded solid enough. No need for Crowley to start hypnotizing anyone. Yet.

“But it’s such an important piece of the cultural history of the gold rush!” the receptionist said. “And feminist history too. Did you know it was mainly because of her that the women in Dawson could get abortions? She also saved many women from abusive families and helped homeless girls out from the streets.”

Crowley didn’t say a word. Aziraphale pitched in again. “Really? That is remarkable,” he said with a genuine smile.

The receptionist was bursting with excitement. “This is extraordinary! Do you mind if I fetch the owner?”

“No, not at all…” Crowley managed. 

The receptionist hurried away. Aziraphale heard a squeele from the corridor she had disappeared into, and footsteps disappearing.

“Crowley! I never knew!” he said, the excitement of the human catching on him too.

Crowley had turned a nice shade of red. “Well, it wasn’t as if I did it to be _nice!"_

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said and tried to mean it, but knew his smile was betraying him. How had he managed to deny his love for Crowley for so long, he could not understand. The demon was impossible _not_ to love.

“It was all considered evil back then! It was very tormenting for some to know it was happening,” Crowley said. His head was rapidly disappearing between his shoulders. 

“I’m sure it was,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t try to argue. Instead he reached and squeezed Crowley’s shoulder, and as he did so, he thought: _I love you._ Crowley stopped complaining but still grumbled to himself when Aziraphale went to look at the rest of the small exhibition. It consisted of photos of Saloon Fortuna from its early days, mapping out its history during the gold rush. One information sign got his attention. It was marked by a rainbow, the natural phenomenon the humans had stolen back.

_While it is not straightforward to apply modern terminology to historical figures, Cat’s-eye Crowley can be described as a pioneering LGBTQ+ activist. Her carefree attitude toward gender and sexuality created a safe haven for all those who did not fit into the narrow gender roles of the time. Cat’s-eye’s own gender has been a cause for speculation too. Even though much of her life remains a mystery, she has been adopted as a historical icon for trans people by many._

Aziraphale gasped with delight. “Crowley, come see this!”

“What?” Crowley said gloomily but came to see what Aziraphale was pointing at anyway. He took his time reading the sign. 

“That’s not too bad,” he said eventually. Aziraphale could have hugged him. Crowley’s voice was kept carefully cool, but Aziraphale recognised the pride in it. One of the original sins, pride. And just like the rainbow, humans had taken that back too. Crowley’s clever humans. 

Sound of approaching footsteps alerted the two of them, and the receptionist returned with an older woman with her. She was sturdy and short with neatly cropped greying hair, and her walk was determined. That determination faltered slightly when Crowley looked over and she saw his face. 

“My God. You really do look like her,” she said, momentarily lost. She snapped out of it quickly and offered a hand, which Crowley took first, then Aziraphale. “My name is Sally Wilkins. Welcome.”

Aziraphale did the talking for the both of them again. “Pleased to be here. So happy to see the exhibition,” he said with a pleasant smile. Sally paid him no attention and spoke to Crowley instead. 

“My great-grandmother worked in Saloon Fortuna when it was owned by Cat’s-eye Crowley. That employment saved her life. Her daughter, my grandmother, took it upon herself to preserve the history of the saloon. I carry on her work,” Sally explained with a no-nonsense tone.

“Who was… who was the great-grandmother?” Crowley asked. 

“Dorothy Wilkins. I have later taken her surname for myself too.”

Crowley didn’t respond, but Aziraphale saw that something about the revelation got to him. Dorothy. Aziraphale hadn’t known her, but then again, Aziraphale had never gotten to know Crowley’s crew at the saloon. To him it was just a blur of faces, people he had met once and then forgotten about. Crowley had been all he had seen. 

“The history of the saloon was retold by the dancers and other members of the crew. Cat’s-eye’s time running the place was short but influential. Once she left Klondike, no-one ever heard of her again. But her legacy lives on and inspires many,” Sally told them, eyes fixed on Crowley. Even though the words were probably retold countless times to many tourist groups she still spoke them with dedication. “Maybe you are able to tell us more about her life?”

Aziraphale let Crowley talk for himself then. He half-listened to Crowley stutter a story of a woman emigrating to England, and continued to walk around the exhibition. Apart from the history of the saloon it also described the roles of the women during the gold rush. Not all of them had been dancehall girls. Many had worked as prospectors. 

Then his eye caught a copy of a local newspaper from the time. The title read: _A Dancehall Girl Stolen Into The Wild!_

Aziraphale read the article and was shaking his head and laughing by the end of it. It told a story of that infamous brawl and described one Mr. Fell with _horrifying_ inaccuracy. He would have to ask Crowley to take a picture of the article with his camera phone. He was just about to raise his voice to call Crowley over, when something else caught his attention. 

There was an actual photo of _him._

Aziraphale had not recognised himself at the first glance. Partly because the picture was old, grainy and originally printed on a cheap poster paper, but also because the picture was not flattering at all. He looked quite like the monster the newspaper article described him as. The poster was titled _Wanted,_ and it warned how dangerous and unpredictable he was. Next to his poster was a similar poster of Crowley too. His picture was much more flattering and was titled _Missing._

Alongside the posters was an information sign. 

_...no one knows what happened during that month. It was right after the Great Spring Flood of 1897 that Miss Crowley returned to Dawson and resumed her duties as if she had never been away. However, the lively hostess of Saloon Fortuna was said to be more reclusive after the incident._

_Even though Cat’s-eye Crowley and “Knockout” Fell were hardly ever seen together, those who knew Miss Crowley the best confirmed the two shared something special. Not much is known of the mysterious Mr. Fell, apart from the effect he seemed to have had on Miss Crowley. Rumour says she once strangled a man who disrespected Mr. Fell in her presence. As far as rumours of the gold rush go, this one might not be as far fetched as one might think._

_The last time Mr. Fell was seen in Dawson was in January 1899 during the fire that destroyed most of Dawson and Saloon Fortuna with it. It is unclear whether or not the two events are linked. Afterwards Miss Crowley lost her battle to alcohol and eventually gave the saloon forward to Dorothy Wilkins. Soon after Miss Crowley left Dawson, never to be heard from again._

Aziraphale stared at the text. Memories flew past him and he saw them slotting into a new framework in front of his eyes. Crowley, the undisputed matriarch of Saloon Fortuna, who Aziraphale remembered looking down at him with those cold and indifferent eyes, was now becoming someone new. Someone with a softer heart. Someone who had been hurt. And in this exhibition, put up by humans, _Aziraphale_ was mentioned as the one who had hurt her so much. Who had caused her whole character to change. Was it true? 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley said behind him. Aziraphale jumped a little and laughed to play it off. 

“Oh, you startled me,” he said with a nervous smile. Seeing that the humans were talking with each other on the other side of the room, he continued: “Look, I found me!”

Crowley looked at the grainy photo of angry Aziraphale. “Jeez, did someone take the last biscuit right in front of you?” 

Aziraphale shrugged. “It fits with that news article. Makes me sound like quite the monster.”

Crowley laughed. “You deserve that. You’ve never seen yourself angry. You have no idea.” Crowley smiled, shaking his head. But the smile slipped before he looked away. Crowley busied himself with looking through more of the text.

Aziraphale’s heart sprinted. Crowley was looking through the text that speculated about the two of them. Some part of Aziraphale wanted Crowley to read it all. He did have a plan, he knew how they could start the conversation about their past, but maybe this could help. As Crowley read the text, his brow furrowed. Time went past slowly like syrup as Aziraphale waited for him to reach the end.

“Hmm,” was all Crowley said before he turned back towards the room. 

Disappointment stabbed Aziraphale. Crowley was right there, hiding something from him. There was obviously something about their time in Klondike that Aziraphale had not understood. But how to reach out to Crowley and ask about it, when he obviously wanted to hide it? In any case, it was too big of a question to ask here and now. Aziraphale settled for the next best thing. “Did you really strangle somebody?”

“Um,” Crowley began and glanced over to Aziraphale. Then he smiled, somehow embarrassed. “Not really. I, um, I was drunk. Pressed my heel to his throat, I think. No one ever said a cross word about you ever since.”

“No one in the whole Dawson said a cross word about the town’s most hated man?” Aziraphale asked. “Crowley, you are powerful, I know, but not _that_ powerful.”

At that Crowley laughed. “Alright, alright. Not when I was listening, at least.”

“Well, I’m flattered. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Crowley said as if by reflex, but it had no bite to it. 

Sally approached them then and asked if the hotel could offer them dinner, as special guests of course. Seeing that Crowley hesitated, Aziraphale accepted the invitation for both of them. The dinner turned out to be delightful. Conversation flowed partly like a history lesson and partly as disguised reminiscence. Food and wine were good and there was plenty of both.

Finding out that the two of them did not in fact have their accommodation sorted out, Sally outright offered them to stay at Hotel Fortuna for the night as well. Sally insisted it would be free of charge and Aziraphale insisted to pay. From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw Crowley face-palm at their battle of politeness. But Aziraphale was very experienced at that battle and ended up winning with no casualties. 

After dinner, happily buzzing with the wine, the two of them were guided to the reception to book their rooms. The receptionist, who Aziraphale now knew was called Rebecca, asked them to fill some forms while she checked what kind of accommodation was available.

“One room, or two?” Rebecca asked while tapping on the computer.

“One,” Aziraphale said.

“Two,” Crowley said at the same time. 

The tapping of the keyboard stopped. A silence of only a second or two filled the room, but time had that syrupy quality to it again. It was heavy and stretched on for all too long. 

“One,” Aziraphale repeated. He kept the tone of his voice stubbornly chipper, but he did not dare to look up from the form that he was filling. Crowley seemed to be equally still at his side. 

“One room, then?” Rebecca said, not letting her customer-service voice waver. Aziraphale braced himself and looked up at Crowley.

“If that’s okay with you, dear?” he asked. It was just a hotel room. It didn’t have to feel like he was asking… like he was asking for Crowley to run away to the stars with him. Like Crowley had once done. _Oh, Lord._ Crowley had always been the one with more courage than him. It was long due for him to step up.

“What? Yeah, sure. Of course,” Crowley said. The pen hovered over the form he had been more or less filling, perfectly still. 

“One room, then,” Rebecca repeated. She continued tapping at the computer and time returned to its normal density. “It seems we are a bit short with the right size of rooms at the moment. I can offer a room with two single beds that are currently pushed together, but can be arranged however you want them. Do you think that will be suitable?”

Aziraphale didn’t know if Rebecca was simply the most tactful receptionist he had ever met, or if Fortuna had finally begun favouring him. “That sounds perfect, dear. Thank you very much.”

“Perfect. Now if you are finished with those forms...”

Aziraphale put down a different name in the form. Writing down _Mr. Fell_ might have been stretching the humans’ capacity to suspend their disbelief a bit too thin. 

They got their keys. Walking towards their room, Crowley was stiff and stared into the distance. He looked quite defeated, and Aziraphale began to worry he had been wrong about the room choice after all. But Crowley was thinking about something else. 

“You try your hardest to do evil deeds and then over hundred years later find out you played yourself,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, dear. I’m sure it was very evil by those day’s standards," Aziraphale said. After a moment of silence, walking along the thick carpets of the hotel corridor, he added: “That painting of you was very dashing.”

Aziraphale did not see it, but he could have sworn that Crowley tripped on the even carpet behind him. And he loved him for it.

* * *

Crowley had been playing a sentence in his head for the past two hours, ever since they got to bed. It needed to get out, or he would suffocate in it. It could be played as a joke, if it came down to it. He was fairly sure of it. It was just a joke. But it _had_ to be said, or he would regret it for the rest of his days. An opportunity like this might never present itself again.

He turned to see Aziraphale’s side of the wide double-bed in the dark. They had not moved the beds apart, in the end. Crowley hadn’t said anything about it, and Aziraphale had briefly noted something along the lines of not wanting to bother. So there they laid, in the dark, next to each other. But it might as well have been the distance between the stars that separated them.

A hint of light reached the room from the edge of the thick curtains. Behind them the summer night on the North was full of light. The little light that reached the room was enough to draw the edges of Aziraphale’s hair against the background. 

Crowley needed to say it.

He reached out a hand and poked Aziraphale gently through the covers. Aziraphale didn’t move. Maybe he was sleeping. Did Aziraphale sleep these days, Crowley wasn’t sure. Crowley poked at him again, and this time the bedsheets ruffled as Aziraphale turned to look at him.

“Crowley?” he asked, his voice a little sleepy but not too far gone.

“Hi, angel,” Crowley said. And now he just needed to say the other thing. Right. The words were in his head, right there, echoing over and over again... 

“Hi,” said Aziraphale, and waited for Crowley to continue. Crowley waited for Crowley to continue too. “What is it?”

“I think,” Crowley began and stopped. 

It could be played as a joke. A joke. It’s just a joke. He swallowed.

“This room is so cold,” Crowley tried again, and this time there was no turning back, “that I’ll probably brumate soon.”

The room was not especially cold. It was pleasantly cool, if anything. 

Silence stretched on for an unmeasurable moment. Aziraphale looked at Crowley in the dark. Crowley hoped it was dark enough that he didn’t actually see him. 

There had been one single instance in Crowley’s long existence that he had ever used the word _brumate._ Aziraphale had taught him that snakes did not hibernate. They brumated. 

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale finally said. There was a smile in his voice. “We can’t possibly let that happen.”

And then the unimaginable happened. Aziraphale scooted closer and lifted his covers. Crowley saw in front of him a future where he latched onto Aziraphale’s side tightly, like a snake strangling its victim. But that would not be his future. No, he was meant to go slow. Crowley put some of his own covers aside, and carefully inched closer to Aziraphale. 

How close was not too close?

It was terrifying. Each inch could have been one inch too much. Each inch could send Aziraphale away. Why had he said it? He had meant to stay at arm’s length. But Aziraphale had been so close…

Rejection, rejection, rejection, sang Crowley’s heartbeat.

And then Aziraphale wrapped his own covers over Crowley and drew him close. His warmth surrounded Crowley from all sides. In comparison the room really had been cold as an ice. All of Crowley’s regrets and panic began to melt away in that warmth. Fluffy covers on one side, fluffy Aziraphale on the other. Aziraphale guided Crowley’s head to rest on his chest, and even his pyjamas were fluffy and soft. Crowley exhaled and let himself melt.

“Is it better?” Aziraphale asked. His voice was soft too. Crowley heard it rumble through his chest.

“Much,” Crowley said. If Aziraphale only knew _how_ much better. But Crowley would not say more. Already this was stretching his resolution to go slow for Aziraphale too thin. It had just been that Aziraphale had been so… affectionate. Calling Crowley dashing. Booking only one room for them. Even just bringing them to _Klondike_ of all places. It all lit that treacherous feeling quite like hope inside Crowley’s chest. 

“For old times’ sake,” Crowley mumbled. And riding that faint feeling of hope that surely would end up crushing him, he snaked an arm over Aziraphale’s belly to his back. He did not dare to hold him closer. But he didn’t have to, either. It was Aziraphale who squeezed him tighter to himself.

“For old times’ sake,” Aziraphale repeated. Crowley heard a smile in his voice. 

Crowley had meant to stay awake. He really had. It would have been stupid to waste the opportunity to feel Aziraphale’s closeness like this by sleeping through it. But the sound of their synchronised breathing was an irresistible lullaby. The warmth and security of Aziraphale’s embrace soon guided him into deep sleep. Somewhere, where dreams and reality mixed into each other, Aziraphale was gently stroking his hair. The kiss he felt placed on his forehead surely happened only in his dreams, though.


	3. Chapter 3

The night wasn’t mentioned the next day, when they begun the hike early in the morning. Crowley had woken up before Aziraphale, and after carefully memorising a moment of that sleepy and relaxed embrace, he had gotten up from the bed. He wouldn’t have wanted to put Aziraphale through the awkwardness of waking up together. 

They packed lightly, only small backpacks for both of them. They mainly contained snacks in case Aziraphale got peckish. Crowley knew that he himself might very well not eat anything for the next century, not after the magnificent breakfast they had been offered at Hotel Fortuna. But knowing Aziraphale, their backpacks were full of food anyway. 

Crowley still did not know what it was they were fetching from White Agony Creek. Aziraphale had refused to tell, and no matter how much Crowley tried to give Aziraphale his space, he could not help but to be very curious. Old instincts of poking at Aziraphale were still very much there, even if he tried not to act according to them. The curiosity about what was ahead made his step light as they left Dawson behind and headed up alongside the Klondike river. 

That curiosity was laced with a sense of danger too, though. Crowley had for so long kept all thoughts and memories of Klondike neatly tucked away. Now they were all tumbling down and threatening to make a mess of things. He had _not_ been prepared to face the exhibition at the old Saloon Fortuna. To be interpreted and speculated through the lens of history, _immortalised_ as the humans called it, it all made him feel very exposed. As if someone had taken photos on a Saturday night out and was then sharing the photos on Monday at work. The point of time passing was supposed to be that it allowed you to forget. Otherwise being an immortal would soon become insufferable.

And then there had been Dorothy. She had carried on Crowley’s work, even when he had never expected her to. The thought of her made something soften inside Crowley’s ribcage, and he furiously beat that sensation with a stick to keep it at bay. Humans came and went, and he knew from experience not to make the mistake of getting too close to them. Dorothy ought to have been no different. She was just one of the many humans who Crowley had off-handedly helped during his many years on Earth, gotten her off from the streets and under a roof. Why did she have to get under his skin? When had that even happened? Infuriating. Why didn’t anyone ever warn him until it was too late?

But her knowing eyes still followed Crowley to this day, like they had followed him through the haze of his last year spent in Dawson. And finally, that farewell celebration that nearly burned Dawson to the ground, there had been that stern look into Crowley’s eyes he hadn’t been able to escape from. _Take care of yourself, Crowley,_ Dorothy had said. 

Crowley had a nasty suspicion he hadn’t fulfilled her last wish very well. 

“The whole gold rush has been turned into a myth,” Crowley said, trying to distract himself from the vague guilt that gnawed him. Something about Dorothy kept nagging at the back of his mind, and it didn’t feel like anything good would come out of it. 

“That happens to all of human history, my dear.” Aziraphale was walking through the woods in front of Crowley, the path to White Agony Creek much more familiar to him than Crowley even after a century.

“Yes, but… Most of it is so inaccurate! It’s humans and gold all over again. They can never let go of it.”

“My dear fellow Jack wrote a wonderful novel about dogs,” Aziraphale said, in a carefree tone of one who hadn’t been listening.

Crowley found himself blinking multiple times, which was in all likelihood more than he had done all morning. "Huh?” 

"Yes, it was told from the perspective of a sleigh dog. A metaphor for connecting with your true nature and discarding the expectations of a society, I believe,” Aziraphale said. “A bit of a gruesome story to my liking. You know I prefer Austen to Shelley.”

"Sure," said Crowley, who didn't know who either of those were. 

Aziraphale caught his tone and threw an exasperated glance at him. "Romance, Crowley. Jane Austen has written some of the best romances to this day. Pride and Prejudice? I'm sure you've seen an adaptation."

"Right, that," Crowley said, embarrassed that once again he had managed to forget the names of Aziraphale's idols. "Uh, yeah. They played piano and sent... letters." Crowley suddenly recalled why he didn't remember much about the story. A romance recommended to him by Aziraphale, involving letters, rejections... He had not watched it till the end.

Aziraphale laughed at his attempt to describe the story. "Not the summary I would have chosen, but yes. Oh, that book makes me emotional, just thinking about it. You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I... No, that can’t be right. Austen would never be so direct..."

Aziraphale mumbled something about inaccurate adaptations and seemed very bothered about it. Crowley looked fondly at his back. Always so particular about his books. 

"...too generous to trifle with me... my affections remain unchanged... Really, what is the _point_ of adaptations? Austen knew better than to make Mr. Darcy say it out loud after being so harshly rejected the first time around."

He seemed angry at such a small thing. Never change, Crowley thought, and loved Aziraphale for it. The feeling was a familiar ache in his chest. The ache was slightly worn out these days, though. It didn’t manage to punch a hole through him nearly every time it hit him again. Only every second time or so.

Crowley happily let Aziraphale lecture on about the various literature classics as they trekked onwards. The scenery of high summer was in stark contrast to the previous times he had done the journey to White Agony Creek. Once it had been during the night, so early in the spring it might as well still have been winter. The second time, when Crowley had walked back to Dawson, alone and confused, filled with longing and hurt, the spring had shifted to summer overnight. Trees had been bare but full of potential for growth, eagerly getting a headstart for the short summer ahead. All the birds had been singing in cacophony as if the world had been brand new.

This time around nature was lush and greenest of greens, deep and rich. Carefree clouds floated above the tree tops and the birds were not in hurry with their song. A horde of mosquitoes had tried to take a bite of both of them too. Crowley had let them suck his blood at first, wondering if it might make them into some extra-powerful demon version of a mosquito. But it had soon gotten annoying and he had decided not to be bitten again. 

He suspected Aziraphale had done his own version of mosquito repelling, like asked them nicely not to bite him. 

Around noon they stopped to brew coffee by a stream. Crowley held the wooden cup of coffee carefully in his hands and tried not to let memories floor him. It was ridiculous, really. He had drunk endless amounts of coffee ever since he had been in Klondike the last time. Still, somehow coffee tasted different here, underneath the open sky. The scent of it was threatening to pull him back in memories he could not afford to be pulled into. Not right now. Not alone with Aziraphale. It was already difficult to keep his emotions in check without some useless nostalgia adding to the difficulty.

Aziraphale puttered happily by the fire, getting snacks from their backpacks and opening sandwich wrappings, all the while chattering on. Crowley sipped his coffee and listened only partly. Rest of him was lost in thought. It had been just like this, hadn’t it? All those conversations by the campfire, back in the day. Back then it had been after sunset, in the darkness of the spring nights. Moon had grown full from a crescent and then shrunk back down again. Stars had lit up the sky. There had been northern lights too. And they had talked and talked, traded stories back and forth without a care in the world. 

Well, that last bit wasn’t quite true. Aziraphale had been very anxious back then. Always second-guessing, always glancing behind his shoulder. Crowley had used to think Aziraphale had just been uptight and stuck with his rules. He had been wrong. Aziraphale had only tried to survive. 

Aziraphale’s anxiety seemed to be better these days, though. 

“How are you?” Crowley asked out of the blue, cutting Aziraphale’s monologue short.

“Pardon? I’m good, thank you for asking. How are you?

“No, I mean. How are you? Really?” Crowley asked again. He should have asked it ages ago. He should ask it every day. 

“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale blinked and looked thoughtful. He cradled a coffee cup of his own in his hands. “I’m… good. I actually think I’m good. Why do you ask?”

“I just… I just remembered how anxious you used to be. Back when… Heaven was watching. Is it better these days?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “I see. It’s... definitely better. Much better. But it’s not always easy, still.”

“You need to tell me if I do anything that makes it worse,” Crowley said. “Or if there is something I could do to make it better.”

“How could you possibly make it worse?” Aziraphale asked, confused.

Memories flashed by Crowley, uninvited. _I could shout at you and throw gold nuggets at your face,_ Crowley thought. _Force myself on you in bed when you don’t feel safe enough and put you through an anxiety attack. Use human law enforcement to smoke you out, instead of talking to you myself. Push you by asking you to abandon the Earth with me and run to the stars._

_So many ways I have done it worse, angel. But not anymore._

“I’m just saying that… you need to tell me where your limits are, okay?” Crowley said. “I haven’t been the best in the past to… take them into account.”

Sorry, he wanted to add, and didn’t. 

Aziraphale eyebrows did something that made his face look like it belonged to a love-sick puppy. Crowley had to look away. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and that something was in his voice too. “I will. Or, I’ll try. I’m not very used to setting boundaries for myself, really, now that I think about it. Heaven never asked.” Aziraphale paused. Crowley was spinning the coffee in his cup, round and round it went. “Thank you. It means a world to me that you asked.”

“Don’t thank me,” Crowley said but it fell flat already when he said it, weakened by a smile he could not contain. 

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll make sure to insult you later, to compensate.”

“What a threat!” Crowley said, happy to be offered a way out of the deep end of the conversation. “What will it be? A twat? Or even something more imaginative, like… a wet raccoon? A lost sock?”

Aziraphale laughed. Crowley stoked it and threw in more useless slurs, until Aziraphale joined in too. Laughing with his best friend, making up more and more stupid insults, sipping extraordinarily good coffee, Crowley was happy. Yes, his happiness came at a price of having to stuff his feelings deep down and pretend like they weren’t there, but was it really the worst faith one could have? Many others had it far worse. 

Dorothy’s eyes flashed in Crowley’s mind, accusing and worried. With them came a flash of guilt Crowley could not explain. He pushed the vision away. His happiness might not have been perfect, but that was just the way of things. It was still happiness, it was his, and he was sharing it with Aziraphale. 

It was enough. Right now, right here, it was enough.

* * *

Aziraphale’s feet still knew the way to his old claim. He let them lead while his mind pondered to both mundane and life-changing things, going back and forth between the two. Literature and letters. Small talk and confessions. The past and the future.

In the end it had been Crowley who had begun the conversation about their past. It felt very promising. To think that Crowley had been observing him, had been concerned about him... It filled Aziraphale with warmth throughout. 

And not to mention how he had asked to be close last night. Aziraphale had loved, loved, _loved_ Crowley so much for it. 

He felt more and more confident about his plan now, and also about his ability to see it through. The world had changed, Crowley had changed, and maybe he had changed too. Otherwise, would he have been able to bring the two of them here? The angel Aziraphale had been a century ago, the anxious and fidgety one, he would not have dared. He didn’t feel like the credit for the change was his, though. Only his circumstances had changed. He had just carried on, doing what his circumstances allowed him to. And now they allowed him to be someone who had brought them back to Klondike. Someone who had a plan and a will to see it through.

The envelope rustled gently in his inner pocket every now and then as he moved. Once again Aziraphale raised his hand to feel the shape of it, checking it had not gotten lost. The record of managing to deliver letters between the two of them had been pretty poor, but this one Aziraphale would make sure got delivered. He would not part from it until he personally gave it for Crowley to open.

They reached the glacier already in the early evening, the duration of the hike unintentionally shortened by Aziraphale’s antsyness. The glacier stood in the middle of the landscape, as ageless and odd as ever. The creek had carved its way through the bottom of it, but it was not a passage to speak of. Only fish might get past the ice through it.

“Where’s the cave?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“There’s no cave. Heaven collapsed it right when I had left the valley.”

Crowley gaped at him. “You knew we wouldn’t be able to get through? Why did you bring us all the way here?”

“I supposed we’ll just fly over it,” Aziraphale said with a shrug.

“You –, wha –, you –” Crowley got lost in a scramble of varied noises and managed to end with: “we _fly?”_

“I don’t see why not.”

“Right. Okay. Right. Of course. We, uh, we fly. Grand.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale with raised eyebrows, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what was so astonishing about the suggestion. He moved the backpack to his front and unfurled his wings. The materialisation of them made the air rush around him and ruffle his curls. Wearing wings on Earth always felt slightly off, what with them having to clip through clothes and all, and he stretched them to get his corporation get used to the feeling. 

He turned to Crowley to see what took him so long, and saw him gaping at his wings. Suddenly Aziraphale felt naked. He folded his wings down on an instinct, before he caught with the absurdity of the thought. 

“Well?” he simply asked, trying to hide his newfound nervousness. Now that he was thinking about how he was holding up his wings, he didn’t know how to place them anymore.

“Well,” Crowley echoed and then shook himself. “Right. Right away.” He put down his own backpack and rolled his shoulders. A gush of air ruffled Aziraphale’s hair again when Crowley’s wings had suddenly always been there. Sleek, black, beautiful wings, which Aziraphale had of course seen before, but it’s not like he ever had really had a chance to really _look._ Suddenly he knew exactly what Crowley had been gaping about, and the realisation sent a rush of exhilaration through him. 

“Shall we?” he said and looked away before he was caught staring.

Crowley made a vague noise in agreement. Aziraphale stepped away from him, giving his wings the space they needed for the take off, and was up over the ridge of the glacier in a couple of easy motions. After a short glide over the rise of the glacier he landed on the ridge that looked over White Agony Creek. Crowley soon followed and landed to his left side. 

Heaven had hid the valley from humans and nature had long since covered all the marks Aziraphale had left after him. The valley was in full bloom of the summer now. Evening sun coloured it in warm tones, and soon the valley would dip in the shadow of the mountains. The night would never get really dark, though. After sunset, it would only be a couple of hours of twilight before the sun rose again. 

Aziraphale looked over to Crowley and nodded before taking a step over the ridge. The human instincts of his body screamed in protest of the terminal choice. But gravity wasn’t an issue for him at the moment. Aziraphale, honouring the ageless angelic tradition, descended gracefully down to the valley in an upright position, wings only giving the appearance of flying but not endorsing any laws of physics. When gravity embraced him again, his feet met the ground in a third position like a ballerina’s. Quiet and graceful, and for once perfectly in control, Aziraphale felt quite pleased with himself when he tucked his wings away from this realm. He only wished there was someone in the valley who he could have said ‘be not afraid’ to. 

Crowley did no such thing as to follow any angelic traditions. He jumped head first from the ridge like a diver and soared over the valley for a couple of triumphant laps. Then he tried to land next to Aziraphale at too high speed and nearly toppled over himself, sliding over the moss. Aziraphale laughed at the sight. Crowley’s elegant wings flapped about, trying to regain his balance. The strong turbulence raised swirls of dust and debris dancing in the air. After Crowley found his footing and tucked his wings away, he grinned at Aziraphale, a wide smile with sharp teeth. 

“Should do that more often,” Crowley said and ran a hand through his wind-tousled hair. 

Aziraphale’s breath got suddenly caught in his throat. Crowley was _beautiful._ Crowley was beautiful, and they had made it into White Agony Creek, and Aziraphale would soon tell him everything, and the world would never be the same again, and he didn’t even know whether or not Crowley would want to hear him say any of it and then everything would surely be ruined for forever and –

Aziraphale shook his head and looked away. No use panicking at this point. It would be quite ridiculous to back away now, after having gone through all the trouble of bringing Crowley all the way here. He had a plan, and he would stick to it. 

He wanted this. He needed to remember that.

They were now at the place where the ice cave had once been. Aziraphale looked at the water of the creek flowing underneath the glacier. Crowley came to stand beside him and set his backpack down. 

“It’s a shame about the mammoth,” Crowley said. 

“The mammoth?”

“It was in good condition. I’m sure humans would have been thrilled to preserve it.”

Aziraphale frowned. “But it wasn’t historical. Heaven put it there.”

“Ah, well. They wouldn’t have known that,” Crowley said and shrugged. “So. What now?”

“Yes. So.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. Time to forget about mammoths and Crowley’s wind-tousled hair and get back to the plan. Even though his hair was _very_ fetching. “When I was leaving White Agony Creek for the last time, Heaven collapsed the passage before I could get my sled through. And I thought you could be able to help me get it out of there.”

“Right. So when you said it’s buried in ice, you meant... “ Crowley gestured towards the glacier. 

“Yes.”

“And you want me to..?”

“Well. Melt it?”Aziraphale said and shrugged. He kept his face carefully innocent. 

Crowley paused to look at him, and when he failed to elaborate, Crowley continued to gesture wildly at the wall of ice next to them. “It’s a _glacier,_ Aziraphale! A glacier! Do you honestly think I can melt a _glacier?"_

“You are capable of many grand things,” Aziraphale said in a matter-of-fact tone. He had no clue if Crowley would really be capable of melting a glacier, but it surely didn’t hurt to boost his confidence a little. 

“Thanks, but… It’s a glacier! I can’t melt a –” Crowley stopped. “I don’t think.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, dear. It’s just some ice,” Aziraphale said. He set down his own backpack on the ground next to Crowley’s. A strand of hair had fallen over Crowley’s face and his hand was itching to put it to its place, but that wouldn’t do. Not yet.

Crowley shrunk a little and his gesturing hands fell down to his sides. “You could have just… mentioned it beforehand.”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said and didn’t mean it. 

Crowley ran his hand through his hair and that tempting strand was put back to its place. “Alright, alright. No need to get pouty about it. We’ll figure out something. What’s so important about this sled anyway?”

“Erm, you now. Memories. Anyway, to start with, I was wondering if you could tell where in there the sled exactly is? It has the holy axe in it. So maybe it itches you or something. I don’t know if it works that way, though. It’s just a hypothesis, based on my ability to sense some… occult things.” 

Crowley stared at him. “You could have asked about that too, you know. Before we got all the way here.”

“So it won’t work, then? Oh well, then we’ll just have a bit bigger area to melt.”

“Uh, I mean, it might. But you are kinda interfering with the signal.”

“I’m sending a signal?”

“Er, yeah, a bit,” Crowley said. “But you are right. I might be able to pick up the location. Maybe. If you just go away for a moment.”

“Splendid! I’ll take a walk,” Aziraphale said, and smiled brightly before leaving Crowley muttering alone by the glacier. He sighed with relief the instant he was out of Crowley’s sight. Digging into the glacier had been the haziest part of his plan. He had vaguely hoped Crowley could just summon some Hell fire and be done with it, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Well, he believed in Crowley. Crowley always figured out something. 

He reached the low hill where his cabin had once stood. Not much was left of it now. Most of the wooden structures had collapsed and decayed into a pile of moss, and only the rise of the stove was left standing, it too covered in vegetation. A fully grown pine tree stood where Crowley’s bed once had been. Aziraphale smiled at the thought. He had lived in the valley for three years, and Crowley had stayed there for one month, and still the bed was Crowley’s bed. 

He continued further into the valley, feeling like an archaeologist digging through his own past. There was the tree he had hit with his axe once, when a bear had attacked Crowley – it was a snag now, a bare trunk that had died standing. He heard the familiar sounds of the animals that skittered away from his path. Maybe their ancestors had passed on the agreement: Aziraphale would not bother them, and they would not bother him. 

Reaching the upslope of a hill at the edge of the valley, he sat down on a fallen tree trunk, hoping it was far enough for Crowley to do his detecting work. He patted his breast pocket and was once again reassured by the presence of the envelope. Like over a century ago, it was as if all of his courage had been outsourced to it. It was a comforting thought. He might not have been able to get the words out on his own, but with the help of the letter, he would be forced to.

It all seemed so simple now that his fears weren’t clouding the view like they had done for so long. The world was different now. The world was _theirs._ And since Crowley was not taking the step to cross the distance, Aziraphale would. He owed as much to both of them. He needed to do this. 

No, not just that. He _wanted_ to do this. It was about time.

And the way his heart beat fast and loud as if it wanted the whole world to hear it… For once it wasn’t because of panic. It was because of excitement. 

Aziraphale felt alive.

The sun was disappearing behind the mountains. Its last rays warmed Aziraphale down to his immortal soul. Somehow, after a whole existence of cowering, he had found a way to stand tall. It was all because of Crowley, of course. Always because of Crowley. Together they had faced their worst fears and set each other free. 

As the sun disappeared, a distant shout echoed through the valley. It sounded more or less like the word _angel._ Aziraphale got up from the log and looked at the stark silhouette of the mountains. Then he made his way back across the valley, smiling. 

It was time to confess. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve made two portraits that are set somewhere in the mood of this chapter. Check them [from my insta!](https://www.instagram.com/p/CMHnomsFOia/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)

Crowley peered into the woods and wondered whether or not Aziraphale had heard his call. He was vaguely sure he knew where the sled was buried, but on the other hand he had never tried pinpointing holy objects in a three-dimensional space before. He might have been completely off too. It was such a specific and odd thing to request from him. 

He sat down on a rock that was still warm after the sunny day and rested his chin on his hands. He had once walked out of this valley and thought he had left it for good. And now Aziraphale had brought him back here once more. 

Aziraphale was acting in mysterious ways, keeping something from Crowley and dodging questions. Crowley allowed it, of course. Poking holes at Aziraphale’s defences belonged to a time gone by. These days it was all about patience. Patience to let Aziraphale make his own peace with their past. Patience to wait for Aziraphale to come to him, instead of coaxing him to do it. And also patience to deal with the possibility that Aziraphale might never reach out to him at all.

That was the hardest part.

He closed his eyes and a vision of Aziraphale’s wings filled his mind. Yes, even though Aziraphale was acting strange, it was mostly a good kind of strange. It lit up little fires of hope inside of Crowley that he was trying carefully not to stoke. Too many years of tending a broken heart had made him careful. There was no need to start thinking some sort of a time had come. 

The sound of rustling undergrowth alerted Crowley from his thoughts and soon Aziraphale emerged from the woods. He looked different somehow, as if some nervousness had melted away and determination had taken its place. Crowley wondered if he should be worried. 

“Did you visit the cabin?” he asked and regretted it immediately. Too much unspoken history was intertwined with that place. Too many possibilities to stir Aziraphale unnecessarily and scare him away again. 

“I did. Only the stove left, I’m afraid. Big trees growing where it stood.”

“Figures,” Crowley said, relieved to see Aziraphale hadn’t minded the reminder. “Not covered in ice and all.”

“Did you find the sled?” Aziraphale asked and walked past Crowley to the edge of the glacier. He placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder when he passed, and rubbed it affectionately before moving on. Crowley gawked at his shoulder as if it had started sprouting grass. It took him a moment to catch up to answering.

“Yeah, I – yeah, I think so. It’s, uh. It's a bit to the left from the creek. Not very deep in the ice actually. That is, if I’m correct, which I’m really not sure about. It’s not like I do this kind of thing every day,” Crowley said defensively. He wanted to do this right for Aziraphale, but had no guarantees he actually could. It annoyed him.

“That’s perfectly fine. I only need you to do it this one time, not every day,” Aziraphale said and peered in the ice in the spot Crowley had pointed out. The ice was opaque, and there was no chance of actually seeing the sled. “Shall we get to it?”

“Sure,” Crowley said and sighed. Melting a glacier. Definitely not his forte. He stepped on Aziraphale’s left side by the glacier, which radiated that same ageless cold that was all too familiar to Crowley from before. He peered into the ice and now for the first time thought seriously about what would be the best way to do the task. “I wouldn’t just snap my fingers and make the ice disappear. What if the whole thing collapses again? It has to be done slower. So we’ll literally just melt it, I guess. Like you said.”

“See, I knew you would figure it out. You have always had common sense, between the two of us,” Aziraphale said and offered Crowley a bright smile. His eyes crinkled with it, and the joy in them was as beautiful as ever.

“You think it’s  _ me  _ who has common sense?”

“Obviously.”

Crowley just laughed. He wasn’t sure whether or not Aziraphale was serious, but if he was, he was also wrong. Well, it was these little things that made Crowley love him all the more. And  _ of course _ he would melt a glacier if Aziraphale asked him to. There was no question about it. He would melt the polar caps, if Aziraphale ever got the fancy to drown the world. Well. He would want to have a serious discussion about it first.

“Alright, angel. Let’s get your sled,” Crowley said and reached his hands out to the wall of ice. 

Doing miracles was a matter of seeing the world like how he wanted it to be, and not how it currently was. Crowley wrangled himself past the little resistance caused by his human-like side. Then it was just a matter of telling the ice that it was in its best interest to start melting  _ or else.  _

The glacier resisted the change. Crowley frowned at it. Usually his  _ ‘or else’  _ was effective against anything. Puzzled, he lightly slapped Aziraphale on his arm to alert him, all the while searching for an opening in the ice. “This is not regular ice. Lend me a hand, will you?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said and put one of his hands on the ice as well. That was when Crowley felt a nudge in the world. His threats hadn’t been able to cut it alone, but combined with Aziraphale’s polite request and a promise of  _ just how nice it would be to be a liquid, don’t you think?  _ a little stream of running water appeared on the surface in front of them.

The stream of ice-cold water grew in size. It was a small and a cheerful waterfall emerging out of nowhere, eating away the ice, creating a shallow dent the size of the two of them. Crowley smiled triumphantly and turned to look at Aziraphale, and was faced with a dazzling smile directed at him in return. And even though he was now facing Aziraphale and should by all accounts have been prepared, should have seen it coming, he was not ready for it. Aziraphale reached with his free hand and took Crowley’s hand in his own. Crowley’s heart leaped. In an instant, a whole area of ice melted and the little waterfall became a freezing cold flood that soaked both of them up to their waists before it rushed to join the creek to their side. 

The dent in the ice had become a cave. 

For a second Crowley still looked at Aziraphale, who looked back at him, gaped at him mouth open. Then Crowley looked away, anywhere but to Aziraphale and ran through a list of curses in his head, beating up his out-of-control emotions. Aziraphale had rejected his love already a century ago. He surely didn’t need a reminder of it now, and not here of all places. Crowley made a half-hearted attempt to yank his hand away from Aziraphale’s, but found out that Aziraphale didn’t let him. Instead he heard Aziraphale laugh. His head snapped right back at Aziraphale, heart beating painfully in preparation for yet another rejection.

Aziraphale was laughing. But it was not mischievous laughter, or even nervous laughter. No, it was simply a happy sound bubbling out of him. His eyes were crinkled with a joy that Crowley loved seeing on his face, and he held tightly to Crowley’s hand.

“Very efficient,” Aziraphale said. “This water is awfully cold. Care to dry us up?”

And just like that, Aziraphale had brushed away any awkwardness of the situation. Was it the smoothest rejection in the history of unhappy love stories, or had Aziraphale not made the connection between what had happened, Crowley did not know. But he was grateful for it anyway. He snapped the fingers of his free hand and dried their clothes.

“Should we carry on?” he suggested, aiming for a nonchalant tone, and gestured towards the newly formed cave. Aziraphale agreed and stepped into the cave, pulling Crowley after him from his hand. Crowley looked at where their hands connected, and felt as if the limb didn’t even belong to him. But he felt Aziraphale’s hand in his, so it must be his hand. He squeezed it experimentally. Aziraphale squeezed back, and Crowley’s heart leaped again. 

Inside the cave cold surrounded them from all sides. The warm colours of the summer evening were replaced by a cool blue. 

“Where was the sled, again?” Aziraphale asked.

“I really don’t know anymore,” Crowley said. All he could sense was Aziraphale, Aziraphale and Aziraphale, just like he wanted it to be. 

“Well, this seems to be going well, so let’s just keep at it,” Aziraphale said happily and touched the ice once again. Crowley followed. Soon their feet were wet again as the water rushed out of their cave. Crowley’s hand and his feet were painfully cold, but the other hand in Aziraphale’s hand was warm. He would happily let the rest of himself freeze all over if he could just keep on holding Aziraphale’s hand. 

And when a handle of the sled eventually started peeking through the ice, it was only Crowley who was surprised that his new skill as a radar of holy objects had actually worked. Aziraphale simply exclaimed that he had known all along Crowley could do it, with happiness written all over his features. It faltered very soon, though.

“The sled will get wet,” he said with a frown on his face. 

Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand and stepped forward. If Aziraphale wanted his sled dry, he would get the sled dry. He pushed his nails into the ice, pushed through the Heavenly resistance of it, and layered a temptation. Past mere melting was a promised land that all good ice got to go to. Good ice would not become water and make Aziraphale’s sled wet. Good ice skipped the liquid stage altogether and  _ sublimed.  _

Steam began rising from the wall. Then it condensed immediately back to liquid as it met the cold air and began to drip down as water. Crowley cursed. But before he had time to do anything about it, Aziraphale stepped in. He held up a hand as if he was blessing something, and the sound of dripping water stopped. Crowley nodded and turned his attention back towards the sled. Ice vanished into thin air around it, and the temperature of the cave rose. With small steps Crowley walked around the sled as the ice receded, until finally all of it was uncovered. 

“Can you move it? I’ll handle the steam,” Crowley asked. Aziraphale carefully lowered his hand and not a drip of water escaped as Crowley threw his best threats at the steam. It was getting restless, though, trapped in a form it didn’t want to be in. Aziraphale tugged the sled and yelped in delight when it moved. 

Aziraphale guided the fragile sled out of the cave. Crowley followed right after and when the sled was far enough, he let go of his threat on the steam. The cave and the area close to its opening experienced a very regional and a heavy rainstorm, when most of the steam condensed back into liquid all at once. Another flood rushed out of the cave and merged with the creek. Then all that was left was a neat cave in the ice, and the sled that had been extracted from it. 

Crowley took a deep breath and tried to reorient himself. He had just done  _ that.  _ Last time he had flexed that hard was on the day when the world hadn’t ended. 

He sat back on the sun-warmed rock. “We actually got it out.”

“You did so well, Crowley, darling. It’s dry and everything. You are brilliant, just brilliant,” Aziraphale said from where he was crouched down by the sled, examining it.

Hearing the praise, something bloomed inside Crowley. He laughed and closed his eyes, savouring the moment. He could blame exhaustion for it, if he had to.  _ Darling.  _ Aziraphale had just called him darling. All the trouble of coming to White Agony Creek was worth it just for getting to hear Aziraphale call him darling. He was etching the sound of it to his memory, when Aziraphale startled him again with a touch.

There was a hand running through his hair. Fingers pushing the long strands away from his face, then rubbing his scalp affectionately. Little motions once, twice, three times before the hand pulled away and Aziraphale said with a tone so earnest that it hurt: “Thank you.”

Crowley lifted his head from his hands and looked up at Aziraphale, dazed. He was grateful for his glasses. Without them, who knew what his eyes would have betrayed. Aziraphale stood above him, looking at him for a brief moment before turning and going back to the sled. 

“Yeah,” Crowley managed to say after too long of a pause. His scalp tingled where Aziraphale’s fingers had carded through his hair. “It’s… no problem. Happy to help.”

For old times’ sake, Aziraphale had said when he had asked Crowley to join him to Klondike. Maybe Aziraphale really was finally reaching out to him. Crowley looked at Aziraphale, who was examining the sled and opening the bindings with careful hands. It was the same care he handled his books with. The gentleness of it reached right to Crowley’s heart and that treacherous hope flickered back to life. He didn’t have the strength to snuff it out immediately. He didn’t want to. 

Hope was a painful thing, Crowley knew it. It was getting worse now. It was infecting him throughout. If this trip came crashing down in the end, he wasn’t sure he could survive it anymore. That all too familiar hollow pain tugged at his chest. He looked away from Aziraphale, who was now sorting through different packages, and looked up to the evening sky instead. Sun had disappeared behind the mountains. It painted the wispy clouds high up in the sky pastel pink. Swallows screeched joyfully above the valley as they swooped in circles and chased each other around. 

The situation was becoming unsustainable. Each touch from Aziraphale, no matter how they filled Crowley with happiness, hit like a punch. How much more could he still take before something gave in?

Rejection, rejection, rejection, sang his beaten heart. 

Years and decades of struggling through the silence. Years and decades of starving on the fleeing hope of those words,  _ too fast.  _ The excruciating, never-ending wait. The devastating burden of always having to put your own feelings aside. Years, decades, and even centuries of settling for the next best thing. Of not being enough.

Aziraphale’s touch still tingled on Crowley’s scalp. No, it burned. Crowley ran his own fingers through his hair, trying to banish the burn Aziraphale’s touch had left behind, but it was too late. 

His resolve was probably never meant to last, anyway. Something would have eventually spilled over. Crowley was surprised he had managed this well for so long, really. It had been a close call around Armageddon, when he had in desperation asked Aziraphale to run away with him _ (rejection, rejection, rejection).  _ Maybe Klondike was the final nail in his coffin. Reckless, that’s what it was, to have agreed to come here. All the emotions were too close here. The past was right at the edge of his vision. Memories resurfaced. The thawing spring snow, the light of the campfire. The piercing cold of the midwinter and the suffocating heat of the burning saloon. First the light of the flames had framed Aziraphale’s anger, and later illuminated Dorothy’s knowing eyes. 

Saloon Fortuna still stood after all these years. The dancers, his clever humans with petty little life spans, had made it last beyond themselves. It had boomed during the gold rush and persevered when it faded, only to rise again with the growing tourism. And while it had been Crowley who picked up the dancers from the streets of Dawson, it had been the dancers who carried on the work. Who had picked each other up at every turn. 

The dancers had all known what their boundaries were. Crowley had made sure they had learned. No prospector had dared to cross a boundary set by a Fortuna dancer. Crowley had taught them all that, and failed to follow the lesson himself while at it. Years ago, in this very same valley, Miss Crowley had tried to set a boundary for herself. The memory of it was distant. Distorted, even. And yet the emotions it carried were clear as anything.  _ Come to me when you have stopped pretending, _ she had asked. A simple enough of a request. But the boundary had long since dissolved in that dreaded silence, and Crowley had crawled back to Aziraphale, no matter how cruel he had been. 

And now the vision of Dorothy’s eyes was back, pestering him after all these years. What would she even think if she saw Crowley now? Still doting on that one prospector who had ever managed to sway him. All the boundaries he had ever tried to set neglected, all of his emotions pushed aside for the comfort of the other. It was everything Crowley had made sure his dancers would never do. Never put yourself aside for another. Always make sure you make it out standing. 

And Dorothy would see and she would know… 

In the serenity of the summer evening, while swallows screeched underneath the pastel sky, Crowley watched his resolve crumble away. Piece by piece it fell down to his feet and turned into dust, soon blown away by the summer breeze. Aziraphale had needed him to go slow, and he had. But it had been like walking on consecrated ground: the slower he walked, the worse it hurt. Any slower, and he would be set alight. Would it really be so bad to ask for recognition? Just a simple acknowledgement of those words written in the letter so long ago. It might release the tension he had been carrying for so long. Rejection loomed inevitably over him, but how much worse could it hurt than he had already been hurt? It would mean clarity. It might even mean peace. 

Following the swallows with his gaze, Crowley reached up and took away his glasses. His arm was heavy and moved slowly, and his glasses weighted it down even further. Click and click, he folded the handles one by one. Then, slowly and carefully, he placed the glasses in his pocket. As he did so, the memory of Dorothy’s knowing eyes flickered into a gentle smile before fading into oblivion. Crowley smiled as well. It was a sad little smile of those who accept their pain.

He would ask Aziraphale to explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the scene is set. next week: the big chapter… *eyes emoji* 
> 
> or, in other words, the chapter that I re-wrote and re-wrote and re-wrote because gosh DAMN i made the stakes high for myself. dfghaödfgöalkdj


End file.
